One Foot in the Grave Read Free Page A

Dickie’s hunch right, as usual, but not suspiciously right. Not yet.
    The double click of heels on the parquet snapped him out of his doze. He could sense her nearness. She was looking through the panel at the dummy. If it had been him lying there, and if he had still been awake, he would have moved a hand above the bedclothes to acknowledge her watchfulness and then the heels would have clicked and gone; of course, he had no way of knowing how long she waited on nights when he had already dropped off; but tonight she left barely time for the signal to begin before the heels clicked again—a disturbingly unfamiliar sound, heard from this angle—and she was gone.
    He felt an absurd rush of disappointment and knew that a large part of his disjointed will had still been hoping that she would notice something wrong with the dummy, would come in, find him dressed and waiting in the dark—and then he would have to explain, and she would understand, and then. … Deliberately he refused to consider possible thens. Absurd, disgusting. The storm thundered in and out of his mind and left him with regret, now shading into relief and on into vanity that his central will was still in command. No less absurd, but not quite so disgusting.
    He looked at his watch and found that his doze had lasted two minutes, so he had barely made it to the bathroom before she had come by. Lucky, again. He eased himself off the stool and leaned his weight on the basin while his legs became used to their function. His shoulders squared. His hand rose unbidden to adjust his neck scarf and hat, just as if he were about to step out and face the world. He left—as easy as that—and without being aware of any conscious decisions, found himself outside his own door, closing it, peeping through the panel at the dummy, grunting with satisfaction, walking down the corridor. The shock of light made him blink a couple of times but did not bother him.
    He even took a deep and manly breath, to savor the curiously clashing odors of Flycatchers, the opulence of flowers and expensive perfumes and haute cuisine, all threaded through with the sharp medical smells that arose from the endless, and always losing, battle against old age.
    It seemed natural to glance in through the panel of the next door, as if to assert his new apartness from its occupant, Air Commodore Sir Cyrus Turnbull—“My poor old vegetable,” Jenny called him. The mimed gesture of farewell stuck halfway through. She was there, standing by the bedside to take the old man’s pulse but frowning at the door … no, not at it but through it, through him and the wall beyond … she had sucked her lower lip under her teeth … she looked like a child doing sums. …
    He found he had stopped and was clutching the door-jamb, staring back. It was as though he were truly a ghost now. He could see her, but she could never see him, never … and she should not have been there!
    He lurched on at a panic shuffle, reached the fire doors and leaned his way through. His stick rattled loudly as it caught in the closing timber. He tugged it free and plunged for the stairs.
    Sense seeped back while he stood gripping the banister rail, willing the bubbling dismay to settle. It might be a bit of routine she had forgotten to tell him about. Perhaps she had had to heave the inanimate old hero around while she cleaned him up and remade his bed, and so could not take his pulse till he had settled—or perhaps she had simply found something wrong on her earlier visit and had come back to check; that would account for her hurrying through with Mr. X and Lady Treadgold. Yes, that would be it.
    The stairs steadied him still further, a known task. He was strangely fond of them. They were a refuge from the brightness and luxury of Flycatchers, and from the factitious liveliness for which the staff were instructed to strive. There was an aura of deadness and drabness about them